


i'm a fool for you, love

by spookyfoot



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Drabbles, Fic amnesty, M/M, Oblivious Heartbreaker Katsuki Yuuri, Parody, Saltiness, Top Chef AU, badfic, beer pong, but not really, craft store/public access cable au, drunk prompts, fashion/art school au, i saw a man so beautiful i started crying, like really badfic, poponaughty, skate fam beer pong, sort of, sort of a, things i will never finish, tumblr asks
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-05
Updated: 2018-05-16
Packaged: 2018-11-08 20:46:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 12,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11089593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spookyfoot/pseuds/spookyfoot
Summary: tumblr asks, drabbles, unfinished fics i'm amnestying1. oblivious heartbreaker katsuki yuuri never gets a parking ticket2. skate fam beer pong3. i saw a man so beautiful i started crying4. epithet parody, badfic top chef au5. poponaughty6. footsie wars7. isn't it bromantic8. do you need some help with your glue gun?9. touch and go10. hipster coffee shop au11. victor and chris go to beauxbatons hp au12. richter scale of UST13. terrible relationship advice





	1. just lie back and think of england

**Author's Note:**

> title from "Open" by Rhye
> 
> more to come.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> for drunk prompts: yuuri has a secret talent for flirting his way out of traffic tickets.

 

Yuuri loves Victor. Yuuri is also sure that Victor can be a terrible person when he really puts his mind to it.

(And Victor Nikiforov does not do things halfway.) 

There are at least three waiters following Yuuri around the Barcelona Grand Prix Final banquet, sliding trays of champagne flutes under his nose at every turn. Victor’s cat-post-canary grin assures Yuuri exactly who’s responsible.

(When had he even found time between the pairs skate and the banquet? It might be a bigger mystery than how the hell Victor’s going to pull two routines out of his (“extremely well formed, Yuuri!) ass before Russian Nationals. ) 

“Yuuuuuri, the champagne is even better this year,” Victor’s arms are wrapped around Yuuri’s waist, his head hooked over Yuuri’s shoulder. 

“I wouldn’t know. I don’t remember last year.” 

“So cruel.” 

“Yes, honesty is a terrible thing to force on a fiancee.” 

“I’m glad we agree.” 

“What—?”

Yakov appears out of nowhere, claps Yuuri on the shoulder. Yuuri spills his champagne. Victor lets out a noise somewhere between a yelp and a moan. 

(He might have just made Victor cry again.)

“You’re moving to Saint Petersburg.” It’s not a question. 

“Yes—“

“Do not let Victor drive you anywhere.” 

“What—“ 

(No one wants Yuuri to finish his sentences tonight. Only his champagne.)

“Yakov! I am an incredible driver. Rude.” Victor’s pouting.

“Incredibly awful. You conveniently left out the second half of that statement.” Where did Yurio come from? 

“I’m suing for slander,” Victor presses the second button on his speed dial. 

“You won’t have a case once they take a look at your insurance premiums,” Yakov says. 

Phichit sidles up alongside Yuuri, entirely too amused. Terror instantly floods Yuuri’s body. 

(This is the same look Phichit had when he convinced Yuuri to try LSD in Detroit. Yuuri’s never looked at mops the same again.)

“I wouldn’t worry about it.” 

Everyone in the circle turns to look at him. Everyone except Yuuri who’s buried his face in his hands. 

“Please don’t.” 

Phichit ignores him. 

“One of us never paid for a coffee in college. Guess who.” This is also not a question. 

Victor raises his hand like he’s in class. Katsuki Yuuri is the only class Victor’s ever tried to ace. 

(Yuuri  _refuses_  to say this out loud because Victor will make a terrible pun about the “ace of Japan”.)

“One of us,” Phichit points at himself and then at Yuuri, “also never had to pay a library fine. Or cover at a frat party. Or locker rental fees at the DSC.”

Victor is _riveted_. 

(Strangely so is Yurio?)

“Yuuri’s also never paid a parking ticket.” 

“I am the  _luckiest man alive_.” 

“Oh god my ears,” Victor’s head is still resting on Yuuri’s shoulder and no one’s ever convinced Victor to use his inside voice.

 

**Detroit, three years earlier**

 

“IS THAT A SIREN?” 

It is. 

Phichit pulls the car over to the side of the road and hisses, “Yuuri, switch with me.” Phichit has half a learner’s permit. Which means he’s taken three questions in the online DMV course. 

(“Yuuri, I know enough about America to know I should never step foot in a DMV.”)

They switch. Phichit kicks Yuuri in the face. Yuuri elbows Phichit right in the balls.

“I’m so glad I’m already sitting down,” Phichit wheezes, “now push your hair back.” 

“I don’t—“ 

Phichit grabs a tube of lube from the glove compartment and slicks Yuuri’s hair back. 

“Oh my god.”

(Yuuri is taking six showers when they get back to the apartment.) 

(He does not want to know why Phichit keeps that in his ( “our!”) car. They’ve already heard enough of each other’s noises through the entirely too thin walls of their apartment to last twelve lifetimes.) 

“Phichit what the hell?” 

“Just lie back and think of England, Yuuri.” 

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” 

“Just—pretend you’re on the ice. And when we get home I’m prioritizing your cultural education.” He plucks Yuuri’s glasses off his face. 

“License and registration,” the officer stands at the side of the car. Yuuri turns around. The officer drops his notepad. 

They escape with a warning. The officer—“please call me Liam”—escorts them back to their apartment. Please-call-me-Liam stays at their kitchen table for two hours, slides no less than eleven business cards across the table to Yuuri, and brushes his foot against Yuuri’s ankle five times before Yuuri apologizes  _again_ , scoots his chair back from the table, and retreats to his room. Please-call-me-Liam stays another hour, shooting forlorn looks at Yuuri’s door. 

Phichit can practically  _hear_  the commentator’s voices discussing Victor’s latest free skate through the closed door. Yuuri is so predictable.

Please-call-me-Liam leaves with an overzealous petition that Yuuri “call him any time. Day or night. Especially late at night.”

**present**

“I hate all of you.”


	2. after the party is the after party

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The 2017 European Figure Skating Championships First Annual Beer Pong Tournament is a bloodbath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> slightliedasked:  
> hello future drunk spooky, here is a prompt: skating family playing beer pong. they wager their medals

 The after, after party for the 2017 European Figure Skating Championships is carefully cultivated chaos. 

 _Ignition (Remix)_  blares through blown out speakers. Someone—Chris—acquired a whiteboard from mysterious sources. All Victor knew was that Chris had returned with a whiteboard, a long skinny folding table, more plastic solo cups than a party supply store, three rubber ducks in various states of decay, a wizards hat, and arms laced with garters and glitter. 

(The whiteboard was a much bigger surprise than the garters and glitter. He’s positive Chris packed those in his carry-on. No one was brave enough to ask about the ducks. Yuuri had slapped a hand over Victor’s mouth and kept it there even when Victor licked it.)

(It’s not like he wasn’t used to Victor’s saliva.)

Chris writes down sixteen names on slips of paper and stuffs them into the hat, picking teams of two at random. Victor and Phichit both pout when they’re paired with someone other than Yuuri. 

Phichit’s caught between glee and frustration. “This is gonna be a blood bath.” 

The team names appear from a  _mysterious source_. 

(Phichit fools  _no one._ )

  ** __________________**

##  _Round 1: Elimination_

_**________________** _

**Match 1: Emil and Michele (Comedy and Tragedy) versus JJ and Isabella (Team JJ Style)**

J.J. makes the sign of the cross then misses three trick shots. 

Isabella takes out half of Emil and Michele’s rack. 

Michele sighs in relief and returns to his life’s goal of usurping Sara’s shadow. Emil follows. 

**_Winner: Team JJ Style_ **

**__________________ **

**Match 2: Leo and Guang-Hong (Team Kitten Video) versus Phichit and Chris (Team #clapback)**

“Calling a behind the back shot,” Phichit says, not bothering to look up from his phone before tossing the ball, and pressing record on his phone. It lands neatly in the cup at the tip of the pyramid. He uploads it to Instagram. 

Leo and Guang-Hong go down easy. 

(Neither seems very upset.)

**_Winner: Team #clapback_ **

**__________________ **

**Match 3: Yurio and Victor (The Kitten and the Crone) versus Georgi and Seung-Gil (Team E.mo.tion)**

(Victor cries foul at the team names. 

“I am not a crone,” he sniffs, “and I resent the fact anyone thinks there’s a bigger Carly Rae stan than me.” 

Yuuri pats Victor’s shoulder, not even bothering to stifle his laugher.

Yurio turns and glares at him, “you did this to yourself, Katsudon.”)

Victor’s luck doesn’t turn once the round starts. Yurio makes two out of his first three shots. Victor misses all but one. 

“You can drink all the beer, since it’s the only thing you’re good at.” 

“Excuse me, I have  _excellent_  hand eye coordination.” Victor sniffs. His eyes are glued to Yuuri, engaged in a conversation with Sara on the other side of the room, Michele hovering just behind. 

On the other side of the table, Seung-Gil and Georgi have already started drinking. Georgi’s sobbing into his beer, Seung-Gil is staring at Phichit. 

“Tell that to half the street lights in Saint Petersburg.” Yurio snarls, snapping a finger in front of Victor’s face, “Yakov should have sent you to obedience school instead of Makkachin.” 

“What?” 

“Oh for fucks sake,” Yurio grabs a ping pong ball and tosses it towards the Georgi and Seung-Gil’s rack. He sinks it. 

**_Winner: The Kitten and the Crone_ **

**__________________ **

**Match 4: Yuuri and Otabek (The Odd Couple) versus Mila and Sara (Team Wonder Woman)**

“We haven’t even gotten a shot in,” Mila says, eyebrow raised. Yuuri’s already cleared half their rack. 

Victor wraps his arms around Yuuri’s waist from behind and Yuuri fumbles the ball into the cup in front of him. 

“Really?” Yuuri sighs, then drinks it. 

“We might have to give you a handicap,” Chris says, idling at the side of he table. 

“He already has one,” Yurio says, “It’s called Victor Nikiforov.” 

**_Winner: The Odd Couple_ **

**__________________ **

##  _Round 2: Semi-Finals_

_**________________** _

**_Match 1: The Kitten and the Crone versus Team #clapback_ **

“God you’re useless,” Victor’s on his second beer of this round. He’d have drunk more but Yurio had taken two for himself.

(“I’m paired with Victor. I’ve earned it.”)  

“I am a  _champion_ ,” Victor sniffs.

“Champion _loser_ ,” Yurio misses. He angrily sips his beer though the silly straw Victor had slipped into his drink when he wasn’t looking. 

(He’d growled but still used it.)

“That doesn’t make any sense, Yurio. I know English isn’t your first language, but I’m pretty sure those are opposites,” Victor’s grin is insufferably smug.

“What doesn’t make any sense is how you’re so awful at beer pong. Where the fuck is all of your coordination?”

Victor taps his lips in thought, “must have used all of it on my quads.” 

“Oh my god will you just take the next shot already?” Chris asks, twirling a garter around his fingers. 

Victor takes it and misses. 

“I call foul, Giacometti,” Yurio snarls, crushing the cup in his fist. Beer splashes everywhere. 

“Oh, really,” Chris flutters his eyelashes. Yurio is unmoved. “Care to make this interesting then? Raise the stakes a little since your already so  _invested_.” 

“Bring it.”

“Tournament winner gets gold,” Chris looks at Victor, pointedly, “ _all_  of the golds.” 

“Deal.”

“I didn’t agree to this,” Victor protests.

They ignore him. 

“Game on.”

The match is tense, stretching into two rounds over sudden death overtime. 

Yurio hangs onto their medals. 

(With no help from Victor.)

**_Winner: The Kitten and The Crone_ **

**__________________ **

**Match 2: Team JJstyle versus The Odd Couple**

Otabek sinks two consecutive shots, one of them while Yuuri’s taking off his pants to tie them around his shoulders like a cape. 

Victor’s been forcibly removed from Yuuri’s side and he’s pouting against a wall—which is as close as Otabek will let him get. 

(Team JJstyle is still arguing for Victor as a handicap. Yurio wants to see JJ lose bad enough he actually argues against it.)

“What the fuck Beka, how are you so good at beer pong?” Yurio asks

“I used to train with JJ,” Otabek shrugs, “someone had to protect him before Isabella.” 

Yurio snorts. 

To Otabek’s left, Yuuri makes three consecutive trick shots, pants-cape fluttering majestically behind him. 

Otabek shoots him a deadpan thumbs up while Victor completes his transformation into the heart eyes emoji. 

“I love him even more now,” Victor stage whispers, fooling no one. 

“He’s the enemy, asshole.”

“I’m so gay for him.”

“Literally no one was questioning that.” 

**_Winner: The Odd Couple_ **

**__________________ **

##  _Championship Round: The Odd Couple vs The Kitten and The Crone._

_**________________** _

“You’re going down, Katsudon,” Yurio’s fingers are primed for action, even though Otabek and Yuuri won the  garter toss for first shot. 

“I wouldn’t mind that,” Victor slurs, eyes, tracking up Yuuri’s body to pause at his thighs.

“How the fuck am I the one who ended up with a handicap?” 

“Luck of the draw,” Phichit chirps from his perch at by center of the table, sweeping his phone to take a panorama shot of the carnage. 

“It was rigged,” Yurio mutters, as Yuuri sinks two shots, while Otabek makes his first and misses his second. 

“Yuuri was really popular at parties in Detroit,” Phichit confides, “ _really really popular_.” Victor face shifts to a bewildered blend of furious and horny. 

“Way too much information,” Yurio fumes.

“Re-rack! Give us a….pyramid” Yuuri yells far louder than necessary. Victor sloshes beer all over the place in his haste to comply. 

Yurio makes his shots, drunk on beer, adrenaline, and pettiness. Victor—miraculously—only misses one of his, leaving them tied. 

“Don’t fuck this up, idiot.”

“So cruel! I am  _offended_ , Yurio. Who knows if I’ll ever recover,” Victor cries. 

Yurio ignores him, “Re-rack. Same formation.” 

Otabek re-arranges the cups. 

Yurio, giddy as he ever gets, almost thinks he and the idiot can pull out a victory when Yuuri and Otabek each make both of their shots, get their balls back, and sink the last three before Victor and Yurio even have a chance. 

“Fuck! Re-match!” 

Otabek just shrugs.

Victor is frozen as Yuuri stalks over, deliberate sway in his step, predator honing in on his prey. He slides up to Victor’s front, grabs the loose ends of his now un-tied tie good, and reels Victor in like the catch of the day.

A flush blooms across the tops of Victor’s cheekbones.  
Yuuri’s breath hits the side of Victor’s face, “now you have to marry me asshole. It’s…in the vows,” he slurs, “what’s yours is mine. Gimme all your gold.”

Victor shivers as Yuuri leans in to start pressing wet kisses against the side of his neck. 

“Does anyone know a twenty four hour chapel in Ostrava?” 


	3. i saw a man so beautiful i started crying

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Victor sees a man so beautiful he starts crying.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> based on this classic yahoo answers post [based on this classic yahoo answers post](http://pm1.narvii.com/6269/4d16d15390124c898501ae3a6893d3687cdac42f_hq.jpg)  
> 

Victor may or may not be dying and the cause of death on the coroner’s report will absolutely be “I saw a man so beautiful my soul fled my body.” The man in question is sitting at the table by the window, sunlight glinting off of his hair, staring forlornly at the bottom of his coffee cup. Victor’s been coming here for weeks, purposefully taking late lunch breaks that are more siesta than supper, just to he can watch this beautiful man frown into his coffee—and sometimes spike that coffee with hot sauce while doodling on a napkin that Victor may or may not add to his growing collection. The Beautiful Man Who’s Sad About his Coffee draws a lot of poodles. Victor knows they’re Meant To Be.

Victor’s spent the past two months watching this man from across the cafe while purposefully crinkling the packets of fake sugar on his table in the hopes it’ll—somehow—act like a siren screaming “DATE ME.” It hasn’t worked so far but Victor’s a big believer in persistence. Especially if he ignores the ten other people that have approached The Beautiful Man Who’s Sad About his Coffee and left his table with dejected expressions over the past eight weeks.

They’ve made eye contact almost every time Victor’s been in here during the past three weeks. That has to count for something.

Victor reaches over to poke his cousin, part-time college student, and utterly resentful personal assistant. “Yuri check that I’m still breathing.”

“Unfortunately for both of us, you are. That gust of air that just left your mouth that you call words proved that.”

“I see those biology classes are paying off!” Victor’s more amused by Yuri than anything. The sight of the man sitting a few tables away doesn’t leave much space in his brain for anything else.

“There’s no space in your brain anyways,” Yuri snarls, pounding back the rest of his hot chocolate.

Victor doesn’t even care that he apparently said that out loud.

“Should I go talk to him?” They’re on a lunch break that technically should have ended an hour ago.

The Beautiful Man Who’s Sad About his Coffee rises from his chair, slings a ratty blue backpack over his shoulder, wipes the table down with a napkin, and heads towards the door—but not before shooting Victor a glance from under his eyelashes

“No you should just throw money at him and burst into tears.”

Victor’s brain is operating on minimum capacity. It must be. That and the fact he only half processes what Yuri said are the only possible reasons for the fact that he immediately walks over there while pulling his wallet out of his pocket. He only has nine dollars but that’s more than the amount of well thought out decisions he can recall making in the past twenty seven years. He’s sure the exist, there must be at least as many as he can count on his fingers and toes, but right now none of them come to mind, as though the frontal and temporal lobes of his brain have suddenly decided that now is the exact right time for a shotgun wedding in Copenhagen.

He’s not sure why his brain has landed on Copenhagen but he’s also not entirely sure of his brain so geography seems like fair game at this juncture. Especially considering he walks up to The Beautiful Man Who Was Sad About his Coffee and shoves all nine of the dollars that used to be tucked into Victor’s wallet under The Beautiful Man Who Was Sad About his Coffee’s nose while a single tear tracks it’s way down Victor’s cheek. Victor has never been so glad he cries like he’s in a Pre-Raphaelite painting.

“Oh you…” Victor can see The Beautiful Man Who Was Sad About his Coffee fumbling over his words, diving in twenty thousand leagues under the sea of awkwardness before re-emerging with “spontaneously decided to tip me? For some reason?”

“I saw a man so beautiful I started crying,” Victor breathes, more to himself than to anyone else. Though he certainly doesn’t mind if The Beautiful Man Who Was Sad About his Coffee knows Victor thinks he’s beautiful. He’d prefer it that way, to be honest.

“I’m sorry, I can’t take this.” The Beautiful Man Who Was Sad About his Coffee says, reaching a hand out to shove Victor’s hand—still clenched around a crumpled wad of ones—and Victor swears he hears a choir of angels burst into song. At the very least, it’s not the musician busking for tips outside. He’s been playing the same Joni Mitchell cover for the past forty five minutes and at this point Victor definitely knows the difference.

The wad of bills flutters to the ground as The Beautiful Man Who Was Sad About his Coffee tries to shove them back towards Victor’s chest.

“I have to go,” The Beautiful Man Who Was Sad About his Coffee basically yells.

“I hate to see you leave but I love to watch you go.” Victor’s willing to spend the next two months exactly like the previous two if necessary. Preferably with a better view of The Beautiful Man Who Was Sad About his Coffee’s ass. The universe owes him at least that much.

The Beautiful Man Who Was Sad About his Coffee is already leaving, but he whips around, the dark fan of eyelashes fluttering against the curve of his cheek utterly devastating. “Excuse me?” The phrase is mumbled, as though any attempt at small talk pleasantries is as painful as drinking coffee without hot sauce.

“I said ‘If you won’t take the money can I give you my number instead?’”

“Oh um,” The Beautiful Man Who Was Sad About his Coffee bends down, picks up one of the errant bills, and scribbles a name an a series of digits onto the cotton. He trusts it at Victor before flashing him a smile and turning to leave once more.

“You have a great ass!” Victor shouts, ignoring Spill The Beans’s other patrons.

The Beautiful Man Who Was Sad About his Coffee pauses and turns back to flash Victor a bemused expression before striding out of the coffee shop with a deliberate sway to his hips.

Victor floats back to his table while thumbing away the tears from his eyes, Yuri’s scowl like the guiding beacon of a lighthouse.

“For fucks sake you’re a professional matchmaker. How do you still have clients when you’re so inept at flirting?”

“I got his number so I can’t be that hopeless,” Victor preens, smoothing out the dollar bill on the table before tracing the dip of the “u” and the dot over the “i” in Yuuri’s name.

Yuri snorts. “Or he’s just as hopeless as you are.”

Well then, Victor thinks, they’re absolutely perfect for one another.


	4. if you can't take the heat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a friend had a bad day. i wrote her Purposefully Terrible Badfic. i was also having a bad day. so i tried to make myself laugh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i hate epithets. so i made them as ridiculous as possible. this made me laugh while writing it so i'm collecting it here.

**Title** : if you can’t take the heat

 **Author** : myotheraccountisapinkcadillac

 **Category** : Figure Skating RPF

 **Rating** : Explicit

 **Relationship** : Katsuki Yuuri/Victor Nikiforov

 **Additional Tags** : Alternate Universe- Reality TV, TOP CHEF AU, _eggplant emoji_ , take me now katsuki yuuri, that’s not a daikon in his pants, THEY’RE IN LOVE

_________________

It starts during the “Flambe Your Pain Away” Quickfire challenge. Which is the first one of the season. Yuuri peels his eyes like a banana, away from the blowtorch he’s gripping like a lovers hand to see Victor looking at him like _he’s_ on the menu. The silverette’s hungry eyes that make Yuuri’s loins _feel things_. 

“Contestants will have five minutes to torch the perfect creme brûlée” Judge Celestino says, twirling his mustache. He’s attemping a new look this season. 

Yuuri makes the perfect crust—brown, crusty, perfect—and Victor licks his spoon during judging like Yuuri’s plated popsicles instead of creme brûlée.   
  


_________________

In the sixth week they have a “come as you are” challenge where they head to a farm to “meet” their ingredients. Yuuri’s limpid pools overflow while he milks a cow, getting tears in the milk. Victor calls the inkette a culinary genius for experimenting with the salinity of milk. 

He touches his wet, dripping lips to Yuuri’s for the first time, standing in a shit-splattered barn while the cow wonders “are you ever going to finish this?” 

_________________

It’s  the night before the final challenge.

The shadowette stands in the test kitchen, sharpening his knives.

SHING. SHING. SHING. 

He ponders the All-American Rejects song. Whatever happened to Tyson Ritter?

Contestants aren’t allowed in here when they’re not in a competition, but the crowette has a craving for katsudon. 

There’s a rustle of fabric. 

“I thought I was the only one who came here after hours,” a voice breathes next to his ear. Fervid. Hot. Misty words physically caressing Yuuri’s earlobe. “I should have known. Someone misplaced my eggplant. Do you know where it is?” 

He grinds back on his surprise companion. The silverette lets out a gasp. “Feels like you know exactly where it is. Is that a Daikon in your pants or are you happy to see me?”  The blackholette can feel where his companion’s love muscle is throbbing, bound by the fabric caressing his groin. His cock has already wept through the fabric. Yuuri whirls around taking Victor into his arms, “let’s break all the health codes.” 

The swordette and the noirette’s tongues battled for dominance like the British battled the africans during colonialism.

A single tear runs down Victor’s cheek, “I now pronounce you, Top Chef,” he cooes at the josephconradette before swooping in to devour his mouth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just a little note: i've been terrible at responding to comments lately because brains are awful and i'm sorry about that.
> 
> also why would victor surprise a person sharpening knives? because badfic needs no logic


	5. poponaughty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> don't @ me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i think i just created the ao3 tag for this ship.  
> 

Georgi is sobbing on the steps outside of the main design building. This isn’t abnormal, so most of the students stream past him, idly chatting about whether muzzles will  _finally_  come back in fashion, and if enough time has passed since the early 2000’s to make body glitter cycle back to “vintage” status.

As they they pass the Calacatta marble statue of Coco Chanel—one stark white and grey arm splayed on the concrete, finally weighed down with too many post-modern interpretations of charm bracelets—they leave an offering of the last accessory they put on before they left their dorms that morning, saying a little prayer to Tim Gunn as they stumble onto the plexiglass faux-grass quad that some asshole undergrad ( _cough_  Victor Nikiforov  _cough_ ) had installed as a performance art piece. And then “donated” money to the school so they’d keep it. The “lawn” terrorized every sleep deprived Vogue-addicted student on campus by shoving porcupine shards of plexiglass up their ass every time they tried to have a simple salt-of-the-earth impromptu quilting circle. 

(Finding plexiglass spikes embedded in your leather pants was a right of passage for every undergrad.)

Through his haze of tears (so basically 20/20 vision for Georgi via the sheer power of repetition) Georgi can just make out the shape of Victor Nikiforov trailing after Video Game Design student—and local-absolutely-sure-to-be-international—hearthrob Katsuki Yuuri like Pepe Le Pew, replete with  _actual_ little cartoon hearts that Victor wore as a fucking mobile to “prove the sincerity of his love” as he begged Yuuri to model his designs. 

(Performance Studies Major Yuri Plisetsky skulks after them pretending to be disgusted, fooling absolutely no one.)

(The process of Victor and Yuuri becoming Victor-and-Yuuri had been going on for months. They like were the millennial Ross and Rachel—everybody hated their constant will-they-wont-they and just wanted them to fuck already.) 

Georgi mostly knew Victor from his obnoxiously smug magazine profiles, and the bi-weekly obligation vodka and mozzarella sticks meeting they held every week to cry over Yuuri (Victor) and Mia-Rosaline-Rachel-Lila-Anya (Georgi). 

“Here, you need this more than I do.” A golden arm bearing a fashionably hideous watch thrusts a tube of liquid eyeliner into his hands. 

Georgi wipes his (entirely black) tears with the pad of this thumb and turns his head to see Phichit Chulanont—a social-media guru so adept that he’s already interning for  _Conde Nast_ —with a sunny smile spread across his face. 

“Let’s get you taken care of.”

Oh.

(And just like that, Georgi realizes he might not be the Token Straight™ he thought he was.)

___________________

Phichit takes him out to Valentino’s Vineyards, a wine bar near campus where they make absolutely terrible molecular gastronomy cocktails. 

Over Cocktail Gels and Hot Infusion Siphons, Georgi spills his woes like a model who can’t walk in high heels. 

“I though we’d be together forever,” he sobs into his drink, entirely ruining the molecular composition—and exponentially improving the taste. 

“She’s not worth it, Georgi. One time I saw her pair a brown sweater with black pants— _un-ironically._ ”

Georgi’s crying spell continues, but his heart feels a little lighter. 

(Phichit is right, anyone who pairs brown and black—intentionally and earnestly  _of all things_ —isn’t worth his time.)

(Phichit funnels Georgi’s tears into the next couple of cocktails so that they taste better and the rest of the night is a bright blur of color and sound after that.)

___________________

He wakes up on Phichit’s couch in nothing but his boxer-briefs—now shellacked in glitter. 

Phichit sits at the kitchen table holding a long 1940’s style cigarette filter—unlit.

“What happened?”

Phichit shrugs, “you insisted,” then he grins, “besides, it’s now my most liked post on Instagram.”

___________________

They graduate as a pair. Phichit handles PR and Customer Service, Georgi stabs his thumbs trying to _literally_ infuse his designs with blood, sweat, and tears—the Popovich Signature,  _W Magazine_  had enthused in their spring Editorial when Phichit and Georgi held PopoNaughty Lingerie’s Student Showcase.  

Long nights in the studio mean he spends almost all his time with Phichit—though he catches Victor completely and shamelessly naked in Phichit and Yuuri’s shared apartment at least 20 times. 

(He’s starting to think Victor’s doing it on purpose.)

___________________

Victor’s  _absolutely_  doing it on purpose.

___________________

It’s the small moments, the eyelashes Phichit brushes off his cheek, holding them in front of Georgi’s lips with a soft “make a wish.” 

It’s running his hands through Phichit’s hair as he instructs him on the finer points of hair-gel application—magazines have  _no idea_  what they’re talking about. Phichit had looked at _Men’s Vogue_  with utter betrayal, as though it had told him his winged eyeliner was crooked. 

Late hours in the studio, casual-but-not-actually-casual touches, taking all their meals together. It’s almost like they’re dating.

(But they’re not.)

(Something’s missing.)

___________________

“Something” turns out to be a six foot, half bleached blonde Swiss male model named Christophe Giacometti. 

“Call me Chris,”’s voice sounds like someone put Gunther through a remedial English class and then told him to “ham it up a little” afterward. 

Georgi has to excuse himself to change into a looser pair of pants. 

( _Definitely_  no longer the Token Straight™.)

___________________

Ten miles away, Victor Nikiforov’s impeccable gay-dar pings with a new entry. He wipes a tear from his eye, and runs to Yuuri’s laptop to print out Georgi’s “congratulations on your sexual epiphany!” card.

Yuuri sighs and wishes his boyfriend’s sense of tact was as finely honed as his gay-dar and congratulatory card categorization.

___________________

Phichit finds himself pinned to a bookcase as Chris reaches up on to a shelf just above his head to pull out  _Corsets Through The Ages_.

(He doesn’t need a corset to feel out of breath.)

___________________

Georgi’s  _this close_  to kissing Chris in the stock room when a pair of pants he’s treating with acetate spontaneously burst into flame. 

(Georgi knows  _exactly_ how those pants feel.)

___________________

It all comes to head—as all these things do when they don’t end in actual  _head_ —at their weekly brunch in the showroom, over mimosas that are at least 75% champagne. 

“I almost kissed Christophe in the stock room,” Georgi blurts out, as Phichit takes a bite of his breakfast—Eggs Benedict Sandwiched between two slices of French Toast. 

“Wait, you too? God, fantastic!” Georgi spit takes. Phichit completely ignores the mimosa sprinkler spraying out of his mouth.

“Gentlemen,” an oh-god-he-sounds-like-a-Gunther-impersonator-how-the-hell-is-that-sexy-what’s-wrong-with-me voice breaks in,“might we change into something a little more…comfortable.”

___________________

They do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> goddamn it kix. it all started with eyeliner.
> 
> and then i somehow wrote over 1k of this


	6. best foot forward

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> touch prompt: footsie

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> originally posted on tumblr.

It starts the night Yuuri’s new rink mates invite him and Victor out for dinner. 

They end up at a tapas bar, of all places. Mila had suggested it while lifting Yurio above her head. 

“The small plates are perfect for his tiny hands!” 

“I will end you.” Yurio’s feet windmilled through the air as though that would magically provide him leverage. 

“Awww, Yura, are you not enjoying the view?” 

After a few weeks in St. Petersburg, Yuuri’s starting to think Victor comes by his dramatics honestly. 

Victor’s sits across the table from him at dinner, since “you see Katsudon all the time.” Yuuri privately thinks Yurio needs to work on his conditioning if he’s still flushed from practice. 

Yuuri’s sandwiched by Yurio and Mila, but he still feels like the spaces next to him are missing something. Someone. 

Then, the brush of a toe against his calf. 

Victor winks from across the table. His foot inches higher, until it’s at Yuuri’s knee. Victor has to sink down in his chair a little to reach but his mouth has shifted from a pout to a smirk, so clearly he thinks it’s worth it. 

His foot rests on top of Yuuri’s thigh now. Yuuri raises an eyebrow. 

Victor smiles, pulls his foot back and sits upright. 

__________________________

  
  
The next time is at brunch with a sponsor. The table is a perfect square which means Yuuri can inch his foot up up up Victor’s leg just short of where Victor really wants it, while smiling angelically at the man who wants to put him on a box of cereal. 

Yuuri manages to maintain a completely normal conversation while Victor snorts into his mimosa and winds up with champagne drenched sinuses. The brunch continues with Yuuri’s foot sliding back and forth over his thigh while he discusses whether sports drinks or cereal would be a better fit for his image. 

Apparently all it took for Yuuri to have lucrative conversations with his sponsors was to incapacitate Victor. 

Not that Victor minds. 

(The final verdict is both sports drinks and cereal boxes.)

After brunch, still a tiny bit tipsy, Victor laughs while hanging up his coat. “We almost had a problem at brunch today.”

Yuuri slides past him on the hunt for an empty hanger; his eyes are half lidded and his smile is just this side of sultry. “Oh? Did we?” 

Yuuri looks far too pleased with himself. 

 _I’ve made a huge mistake_ , Victor thinks,  _and I’m going to like it_. 

__________________________

  
Victor gets revenge on Sunday afternoon during one of their rare days off. Yuuri had grumbled through his breakfast that a true day off didn’t include an interview—even if it was over Skype. 

Victor watches Yuuri sip from a mug of tea, still sleep-mussed and bleary eyed. Yuuri’s lips are curled into as much of a smile as Victor’s going to get this early—the street symphony outside of their window hasn’t even started it’s second movement. 

The Skype tone chimes through the apartment. Yuuri answers the call as though it were a game show buzzer—Victor’s hardly aware that it’s rung before it’s over and a low voice is greeting Yuuri in Japanese. 

Victor spends the first five minutes of Yuuri’s interview marveling at the way his mouth coils around the unfamiliar syllables. Victor had learned some Japanese while in Hasetsu, but it faded with time and distance. And what he’d picked up since then  _definitely_  wasn’t fit for an interview. 

Five minutes in, Victor slides off one of his slippers and runs his toes along the bony ridge of Yuuri’s ankles, up the line of his shin, to the crest of his knee cap—and stops. Yuuri’s shoulders are tensed, his fingers digging into his mug, and he’s got a twitch on the left side of his mouth like he’s not sure which expression’s going to win out. 

With a grin, Victor mouths “focus,” at Yuuri. 

Yuuri’s mouth scrunches up, like he’s about to stick his tongue out at Victor. But the reporter’s voice, six hours ahead in Japan, echoes from the speakers and Yuuri pulls his attention back to the screen. 

Victor waits, then strikes. He traces a path from Yuuri’s ankles to the inside of his thigh—which Victor knows is one of the most sensitive spots on Yuuri’s body from the hours he’s spent mapping those exact centimeters. 

Yuuri springs out of his seat and ends the interview early. 

“You are the absolute  _worst_.” 

“And yet, you’re marrying me.” 

“Call it a momentary lapse in judgement. You’re making me see the error of my ways.” 

“I’ll make  _you_  see the error of your ways,” Victor rises from his chair drape himself over Yuuri’s shoulders and sigh a kiss into the corner of his mouth. “How did you get out of the interview?” 

“Makkachin. I said she was bugging me for a walk.” 

Victor presses his face into the side of Yuuri’s neck. “Poor Makkachin, framed for a crime she didn’t commit. Don’t worry, I know a good lawyer.” 

__________________________  
  


Yuuri wins gold at Worlds. 

“It matches your hair,” Yuuri says, fiddling with the silver medal around Victor’s neck. 

“Well yours matches our rings.” Victor plucks Yuuri’s hand from his medal to drop a kiss on his engagement ring. “Would you prefer a spring or summer wedding?” 

“I’d prefer a quick wedding.”   
Victor clasps a palm to his chest, “how scandalous. People will talk. They’ll say you’ve gotten me pregnant.” 

“I changed my mind. We can get married when you’ve beaten me to gold—starting now.” 

“Yuuuuri.” 

There’s no chance for them to discuss it anymore before they’re ushered to a long table draped in white cloth with placards telling them where to sit. Victor’s tempted to switch them around, just out of spite. But he wants Yuuri front and center where he belongs, so he leaves them as is. 

The press conference is an outright hurricane of questions. Victor doesn’t notice any of them—because he’s incredibly aware of Yuuri’s foot inching up his leg. It’s a slow crawl, designed to drip desire and desperation into Victor’s already volatile mix of emotions. Yuuri doesn’t stop at his thighs. Victor doesn’t know whether to curse or swoon at Yuuri’s flexibility. Swoon wins in a landslide. 

(Like it was even a fair fight.)

“Victor,” a reporter asks from the crowd, “are you alright?” Victor feels the heat in his cheeks from the flush that’s bloomed across his face. 

“Fine.” He squeaks out. Yuuri’s showing him absolutely no mercy. His foot is currently resting exactly where Victor wants it. Getting up is going to be a problem. 

Yuuri’s foot hasn’t moved an inch by the time the press conference ends. Victor waits for the room to clear before standing. He wears a long coat on the way to their hotel, incredibly grateful that Boston is still cold in April. 

As soon as they’re in their room, Yuuri pounces. “I win.” 

“Mmmm.” Victor sighs, as Yuuri kisses down his throat. 

“I think you deserve a reward.” 

“Your feet,” Victor mumbles. “Please.” 

“Admit that I won.” 

“You won. You can win everything.  _Please_ , Yuuri.”

“Alright,” Yuuri smiles, running a hand along the curve of Victor’s jaw, “since you asked so nicely.”


	7. isn't it bromantic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> slightlied asked: hi spooks!! viktuuri high fives for the touch prompts? i just think that's so??? Hilarious??? *morooka voice* and here we have the most romantic lovers to ever grace the ice executing a..............high five
> 
> I…might have gone in a slightly different direction with this???? oops.

**Katsuki and Best Friend Coach Victor Nikiforov to remain Coach and Student as Nikiforov Returns to Skating**

Nikiforov shocked the skating world when he abruptly retired earlier this year and moved to Japan to coach Katsuki Yuuri. Their hug at the Cup of China made waves in the skating community—showcasing a  _deep_  affection between two friends. Two very good friends. Definitely just friends. No one is quite as skeptical of Nikiforov’s decision now that Katsuki’s broken his coach’s record and taken home silver. 

At the press conference after the medal ceremony, Nikiforov expressed his desire to return to the ice while remaining Katsuki’s coach… _  
_

_Click to read more_

______________________

 

“I’m suing them for libel.” Victor would rip the paper in half but he needs to make sure he can still read the columnist’s name so he can savage them over the phone. And television. And Twitter—especially Twitter. “Did they not see my ring?”

“I’m pretty sure the camera caught it. In fact, I’m sure someone on Pluto could see it, the way you were waving it around.” 

 _“Exactly._ ” 

“I mean, it’s not entirely wrong, you are my best friend. Don’t tell Phichit though. He’ll kill me. I know he has places to hide the bodies.” 

Victor speeds over to Yuuri’s side in an instant. “Yuuuri, you can’t say things like that when I’m trying to work myself into a state of righteous anger.” 

“Mmm, well, I have a plan…if you’re interested.” 

“Does it involve a vacation in Tahiti? Because then I’d be very interested.” 

Yuuri smiles. Victor’s not sure how anyone has ever called him a cinnamon roll. He’s seen the forum posts, and they’re dead wrong. Except the ones begging Yuuri to step on them.That’s one hundred percent accurate. But Victor has places one through infinity in that line, thank you very much.

“It involves quite a few steps before that, but it can definitely end in a vacation in Tahiti.” 

“I’m listening…” 

______________________

 

Four Continents is a blur of sound and color, the press of bodies and the spot at the top of the podium. Yuuri’s routines are better than ever—he breaks his own record by three points. It’s as though being fueled by petty revenge has temporarily muffled his anxiety. 

Yuuri beams as he clutches the gold medal laying against his chest. He’s pretty sure Victor’s crying but it’s hard to see without his glasses. 

When the ceremony is over and Yuuri glides off the ice. Victor hands him his skate guards and is about to lean into for a kiss, but he remembers their plan at the last second. He leans back at the last minute to go for a high five instead.  

Yuuri swears the kiss of their palms echoes throughout the arena. 

Phase One is complete. 

______________________

  
  
Europeans is Phase Two. Yurio glares from the lower podium where he’s got a silver medal draped around his neck. This time, Yuuri’s standing by the boards holding Victor’s skate guards. Victor winks at him as he skates over. Yuuri gives him a high five and then bumps their chests together. 

“We’ll see who comes in first tonight, a little  _friendly_  competition.” Victor raises an eyebrow

Yuuri smirks.Victor wants to kiss it off his face, but he reminds himself of The Plan. “You think you have the stamina to go toe to toe with me?” 

Fuck the plan, the press is so blind they’ll ignore this too. He slides his thumb over Yuuri’s bottom lip. “I think it’s probably a different body part…though you know I’m not opposed to feet.” 

Yuuri flushes. “Do you need a refresher course? I think it would be toe to co—“

“If you finish that sentence I will shove this medal down your throat,” Yurio growls, slipping on his skate guards. 

Yuuri laughs and shoots Victor a sultry look from beneath his lashes. Honestly, is the press blind? “We’ll continue this conversation later. In private.” Or semi-private. Whatever. Same difference. 

“Thank fuck. Come on idiots, we have a press conference.” 

“That means ‘I love you’ in Yurio,” Victor stage whispers to Yuuri. 

“I think there was a subtextual ‘yes Yuuri, I’ll be in the wedding party,’ too.”

Without looking back at them Yurio snaps, “you better put me in leopard print.” 

______________________

The 2016 World Championships are the closest competition the Men’s Individual category has seen in almost a decade. Victor breaks Yuuri’s free skate world record by .1 of a point but Yuuri wins gold. 

Standing on the tallest step of the podium, Yuuri leans down to pull Victor into a kiss by the ribbon around his silver medal—to the sound of a hundred camera shutters. The press conference afterwards is a flurry of shouted questions as every reporter tries to talk over one another. 

Victor slings one arm around Yuuri’s shoulders and lifts his gold medal with the other to place a kiss dead center. Yurio sits on Yuuri’s other side, face buried in his hands. Yuuri swears he can hear him laughing. 

(Yurio will never admit it, but he was.)

Finally, Yuuri deigns to answer a question. 

“Mr. Katsuki, would you like to say anything about that display of good sportsmanship and camaraderie on the podium earlier?” 

Yuuri smiles. The reporter is—somehow—entirely unprepared for his answer.

“Oh, no. Victor and I are just incredibly excited for our  _wedding_.”

The room falls silent, before it erupts in a chorus of questions once more.

______________________

  
  
**MOUTH TO MOUTH RESUSCITATION ON THE PODIUM AT THE WORLD CHAMPIONSHIPS**

In a shocking display of bro-dom, first time World Champion Katuski Yuuri gave silver medalist and best friend Victor Nikiforov emergency CPR on the podium…

_Click to read more_

______________________

  
  
“Oh for fucks sake,” Yurio says at breakfast the next day. 

Victor and Yuuri are making out in the corner of the booth where they know everyone can see them. 

______________________

  
_[Photo: Victor and Yuuri are both shirtless, Victor is a little sunburned and there are freckles sprinkled over his shoulders. They’re kissing, cupping one another’s faces, rings clearly visible]_

 **v-nikiforov** : so excited to marry the love of my life and my best friend in a few—far too long—weeks! _#katsukiyuuri #husbandgoals #victuuri #saltierthanthedeadsea_

_981,212 likes, 1,673 comments_

**ibluemyself** : *chants* make out make out make out  
**thatshowyougetants** : podium 2.0  
**lilidiot** : #bromance goals  
**y-plistetsky** : **@lilidiot**  what the fuck is wrong with you  
**lee-seunggil** :  **@lilidiot**  they were bromancing one another so hard i had to move hotel rooms

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *whistles innocently*


	8. do you need some help with your glue gun?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> short craft store au (and also local access tv au) ficlet i originally posted on tumblr. more to come...eventually.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> kixboxer strikes once again. this emerged from our mutual love of locally famous au's

Yuuri almost has a heart attack the moment that Victor Nikiforov, host of  _What The Craft_  on Detroit Public Access TV, walks into Michael’s. As he dies in a god awful green vest, all he can think is that hot gluing the defibrillator last week was a mistake. And that he’s suing those tv cameras from beyond the grave because they were nowhere close to capturing how attractive Victor actually is. 

Yuuri wants to help him with his glue gun. Instead he hides. 

Victor leaves twenty minutes later after circling every aisle at least three times. 

___________

 **victor** : CHRIS HE WAS THERE

 **chris** : green sweater vest?

 **victor** : his name is  _YUURI_

 **victor** : HOW DOES HE MAKE POLYESTER LOOK SO GOOD? IT’S NOT A BREATHABLE FABRIC AND NOW I FEEL LIKE  _I_  CAN’T BREATHE.

 **victor** : HE WAS THERE AND THEN HE DISAPPEARED BUT THERE WASN’T EVEN A GLASS SLIPPER

 **chris** : victor. PLEASE. 

____________

“Excuse me?” Victor says, tapping Yuuri on the shoulder. Somewhere between “I should have ironed my underwear” and “digging my own grave won’t be so bad” Victor’s arrived at end of the aisle. Where Yuuri’s arranging styrofoam balls into a suspiciously human shaped arrangement. He didn’t even have fair warning to hide this time. 

“Can you help me?” Yuuri asks. No. Wrong order. Fuck. 

Victor looks Yuuri up and down. And then back up again. “Can I?” The tips of his ears are flushed. Yuuri’s not sure why. It’s not that cold yet.

(When Celestino starts putting Baileys in his coffee, that’s when it’s really winter.)

“I um. I mean. Things? Supplies?” 

Yuuri manages to help Victor find what he needs. He’s not sure how Victor’s so unfamiliar with the store layout—he’s seen Victor’s show and he goes through a lot of felt. Just when Yuuri thinks he’s done, Victor has another question, all the way until Yuuri rings up his total. 

(Yuuri’s not even supposed to work at the register.) 

“What are your hours?” Victor asks, playing with the on and off button on his phone.

“Oh, well, our hours are on the door…” 

“No. When are  _your_ hours?” 

Oh.


	9. touch and go

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> touch prompt: piggyback rides. what actually happened: being carried as a metaphor for relationships. oops.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> written for a prompt by forochel on tumblr. transferring over a few things tonight while i avoid doing my homework.

It’s not quite accurate to say that the first time Victor notices Yuuri’s forearms is the day he arrives in Hasetsu.   
  
He definitely noticed them at the Grand Prix Final—it’s just that whatever brain capacity he could have spared for daydreams of kissing the soft skin on the insides of Yuuri’s wrists, or nuzzling his cheek into the crook of Yuuri’s elbow was immediately consumed by “WE INTERRUPT THIS TRAIN OF THOUGHT FOR AN EMERGENCY BROADCAST of ‘Please Wrap Your Thighs Around My Face.’” 

(Victor’s been catching that show in reruns for the last three and half months.)

As Yuuri carries three lamps up the stairs of Yu-Topia, Victor  _definitely_  notices his forearms. And also that there’s more of his delicious, delectable thighs.

“Please Wrap Your Thighs Around My Face” is now a double feature with “Carry Me In Your Arms So I Can Levitate For The Rest of My Life.” The mental air raid siren begins tolling again but Yuuri doesn’t let Victor sleep with him—unfortunately. But he does pull up the bottom of his shirt and wipe the sweat off his brow, revealing a peekaboo sliver of soft stomach. Victor wishes Yuuri would let him kiss the tempting stretch of skin before it becomes another victim to the quad arms race. 

(Yuuri doesn’t. Victor gets a great view of Yuuri’s biceps and makes sure Yuuri gets a matching view by “letting” his jinbei slide open even more.)

_______________

Victor is essentially swimming in an aquarium full of alcohol. Apparently, Yuuri’s eros is katsudon and sake is a lot stronger than he’d thought. These two things just might be related. The room is spinning too much for Victor to decide with any certainty. 

“How much did you drink?” Yuuri’s arms are a furnace, blazing against Victor’s skin where they’re wrapped around his back as Yuuri carries him down the narrow hallway to his room. Victor buries his face into the heat of Yuuri’s chest—absently noting the stutter-stop-inhale of his breath. He mouths at the worn fabric of Yuuri’s shirt, a fumbling imitation of a kiss. 

“An ocean.” That seems about right. 

Yuuri murmurs something Victor can’t quite make out while slipping off Victor’s shoes and cocooning Victor into his comforter as Victor paws at his arms, trying to fold Yuuri into the bed with him. 

As his eyelids shutter for the night, Victor imagines the soft butterfly press of a kiss atop his hair before he drifts off to sleep. 

_______________

Walking through the wall of humidity of the Kyushu summer is enough of a slog when you’re moving of your own accord. It’s something else entirely when you’re essentially a backpack of dead weight on the back of the love of your life.

“You just had to take the stairs two at a time, didn’t you?” Yuuri grumbles, hands grasping the underside of Victor’s thighs. Victor is painfully aware of every one of Yuuri’s fingertips. 

Victor pouts even though Yuuri can’t see him. “How was I supposed to know I’d bruise my ankle?” 

“Sprain. And just because you’re not competing right now doesn’t mean you shouldn’t take care of yourself.”

 _Right now_? Victor wonders. He doesn’t have much time to think about it because Yuuri’s readjusting his grip—his fingertips slide to the inside of Victor’s thighs.  

 _WHAT ABOUT_  HIS  _THIGHS_? Victor’s brain is screaming.  _WE HAD A PLAN™. THIS WAS NOT THE PLAN™_. 

There were supposed to be  _doves_ , and  _spooning_ , and licking ice cream off of Yuuri’s mouth. Not to mention the lingering touches. Victor’s made progress on that last one but it has been depressingly one-sided for weeks.

“I thought I was supposed to be the coach.” Victor’s sort of kidding—but sort of not. It’s easier that way. 

The Plan™ also involved having a ring on Yuuri’s finger by now—or at least a place in his bed. It’s already August. Victor has whole folders of bookmarks he hasn’t used and the Pinterest icon is mocking him. The curve of the “p” in the logo is very judgemental. Plus, Makkachin keeps giving Victor the saddest faces before abandoning him for Yuuri’s bed. So many levels of betrayal. Like the inside of the Green Tea Kit Kat’s with Yuuri’s face on them that Victor had found in a combini near the train station.  

If this doesn’t turn around soon he’ll have to cancel the order for the cake he was going to jump out of for Yuuri’s birthday

“And I thought we were supposed to be friends.” Yuuri stops short. They’re only a few block away from Yu-Topia now, and Victor is incredibly impressed (and turned on) by the fact that Yuuri managed to carry him all the way from the rink. 

“I’m your friend, Yuuri. Are you mine?” 

Even from his terrible vantage point, Victor can tell that Yuuri’s smiling. “Of course. I wouldn’t have carried you from the rink otherwise.” 

Maybe Victor won’t have to cancel that cake after all. 

  
_______________

 

They don’t immediately make it home from the airport after their reunion. Makkachin is fine, and Victor is exhausted. He can tell Yuuri didn’t sleep on the flight, either. They book a room at a hotel in Fukuoka—a king sized bed that’s just big enough for the three of them plus the words of Yuuri’s almost-proposal. 

Victor get up close and  _very_  personal audience with Yuuri’s thighs when Yuuri folds him into his lap. They’re too tired to talk but Yuuri tucks Victor’s head against his shoulder while running his hands through Victor’s hair—like he’s making sure Victor is actually there. 

When he was twenty, Victor cut his hair. He was tired of people touching it or pulling it as though they held him on a long silver leash. This is the first time he’s ever  _liked_  someone playing with his hair. 

Under the delicate caress of Yuuri’s fingers, Victor’s reminded of their first kiss in China, and catching Yuuri in his arms and cradling Yuuri’s head before it hits the ice. 

Victor’s never fallen for someone like this before, but he’s also never been caught and cared for.   
 

_______________

 

“Do you remember the last time we did this?”  Victor’s pressed up against Yuuri’s back and it’s clearly the best place in the world. 

“The last time we got married? Vitya, unless something else happened after the Grand Prix Final in Sochi…I’m pretty sure this is—“ 

“No no no no no, Yuuuuuuri. How could you forget? The first time you carried me!” 

Yuuri looks down at him. “You mean when you sprained your ankle.” 

Victor pouts. It’s a little sloppy but he’s in Yuuri’s arms and he’s very very drunk. “ _Bruised_. I  _bruised_  it, Yuuri.” 

“You used a brace for weeks.” 

“I was being cautious! You told me to be cautious!”

“And it’s good I did because  _someone_  decided to make a mid season comeback.” 

Victor leans his head against Yuuri’s shoulder, “I don’t want to have this argument on our wedding night. You haven’t even carried me over the threshold! We had a deal—‘carry one another no matter when, no matter the weight’ it was in our  _vows_ ,  _Yuuri_.”

“It was a metaphor.” 

“You know I’m not good with idioms.” 

“It’s not an idiom. Besides, you’re good with them when you want to be. You managed to mention the time you and Chris arranged a real life Scrooge McDuck dive into a pile of money just fine.” 

 Yuuri frowns at the door to their suite. “Vitya, can you grab the key card. Front pocket.”

“Mmm sure. Victor reaches his hand into Yuuri’s back pocket. He can grope Yuuri’s ass for the rest of his life—he’s the luckiest man in the world.  _Past Victor,_ he thinks,  _you will definitely get to have his thighs wrapped around your face. Many times_.

“Front pocket.” 

This time he bypasses the pocket entirely. 

“Victor Alexandrovitch. The key.”  

“Using my patronymic on our wedding night? You’re so mean to me. And you’ve been spending too much time with Lilia.” Victor refuses to fight her for custody of his own husband. 

Yuuri shifts. Victor slides the key card out of Yuuri’s pocket, hands it to him, and then buries his face into Yuuri’s neck as Yuuri opens the door. 

Yuuri smells so good—how does he smell so good? He smells like citrus, and sweat and Victor’s cologne. Victor’s seen Yuuri just pick whatever’s on sale when he buys his body wash at the drugstore. He’s never picked the same one twice. But no matter which one he finds its way into their basket, Yuuri always smells like home.  


	10. hipster coffee shop au

Today is one of those days where Yuuri isn’t sure how Phichit talked him into working at a coffee shop that specializes in some bastardized version of coffee that’s loosely based on the principles of molecular gastronomy. He also isn’t sure how Phichit talked him into a fedora a few years ago either. Yuuri has Regrets. Phichit seems to have made it his mission in life to make sure that Yuuri has even more. 

It’s a Monday, which means a ton of hungover college students as well as the unpaid interns they’ll become—the ones who like to pretend they’re anything other than glorified lackies with wardrobes they can’t afford, and college degrees they went into debt over. 

Victor always shows up on Mondays. Yuuri’s not entirely sure what Victor does that allows him to idle in a coffee shop for hour at a time sampling the matcha essence lattes confetti’d with mochi pearls, each hand infused by syringe with liquid stevia. Yuuri says an apology to the matcha for what he’s about to put it through every time he make ones. Sometimes he just watches Victor sip them, agonizing over the perfect fit of Victor’s lips against the rim of the porcelain tea cup. No one should look so beautiful enjoying such a disgusting drink. Yuuri regrets the day he ever leant Celestino That Cursed Copy of _This Week In Food_. 

“Yuuuuuuuuri,” Victor practically screams across the cafe, scattering the other patrons like a flock of flamingos with Herschel backpacks. He approaches the counter, attempting to appear unruffled, but Yuuri can’t help notice the bead of sweat trailing down the side of his neck before ducking under the collar of his artfully distressed cashmere sweater. 

“Victor.” Yuuri’s learned that there’s really no other way to answer.

//

“Gnocchi is the _original_ Gluten Free pasta, Yuuri.” Phichit says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> feeling like i'm getting driven out of the fandom atm so i'm posting some things i'll probably never end up finishing.
> 
> enjoy my best joke about gluten.


	11. hp au

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> victor and chris go to beauxbatons au

“Chris I’m in love,” Victor said, pulling at the sleeve of Chris’ blue robe even though Chris was staring the the exact same direction as him. And really, how could they not stare at the figure emerging from the lake, drenched in water after colliding with another Hogwarts student mid-air, sending him plunging into the lake.  

“Katsuki, you’ll be paired with Nikiforov,” Professor Celestino says, eyes continuing to scan down a list of names without pausing to survey his student’s reaction. 

Victor has to physically restrain himself from jumping for joy. He’s been waiting for this moment since the Soiree D’Hiver last year at Beauxbatons. Chris keeps telling him he won’t shut up about it. Victor likes to think he’s got a good amount of variety as a conversationalist, he just knows which conversations are his strong points. It’s cold at Hogwarts in December. Victor’s positive he’d be much warmer Yuuri’s arms than he is in his flimsy blue robes. Though he wouldn’t mind being kept warm by Yuuri’s arms sans robe. He wouldn’t mind that at all. 

A wand jabs him in the small of his back. “Keep your thoughts to yourself, pervert,” Yuri Plisetsky says, eyes trained to the back of Katsuki Yuuri’s head. Victor knows that Yura is merely jealous. He’d fallen just as hard for the other Yuuri during their dance battle. Getting him to admit it was like trying to turn rocks into gold, but Nicholas Flammel had done it so Victor would never give it up as a lost cause. 

“It’s rude to practice Legilimency in class. I thought Lilia taught you better,” Victor tuts, enjoying the rising tide of red blooming over Yuri’s cheeks. 

“Lilia isn’t here,” Yuri hisses.   
“Lilia isn’t here _now_ ,” Victor corrects.

Yuri’s about to speak when Celestino interrupts. “If the two are of you are done,” he levels them a glare they both meet because it has nothing on Lilia’s, “the assignments are down and you can join your partners.” 

Victor sticks his tongue out at Yuri as gracefully as he can manage—which is to say very gracefully—before scurrying over to Yuuri’s side, sliding up close and placing a hand on Yuuri’s shoulder. 

“Yuuuuuri,” Victor purrs, using the voice he’d practiced late at night in the Beauxbatons’ dormitories—so often that Chris had invested in earplugs. Yuuri flushes in response to his voice, providing a delightful visual contrast to the silver and green detailing on his otherwise black robes. Victor absently notes that Yuuri’s official school tie is much nicer than the hideous one Victor had suffered through during the Soiree d’Hiver. 

Yuuri jumps so high at the sound of Victor’s voice that Victor can’t help wondering if Yuuri’s put a charm on himself. 

“Victor?” Well that solves the problem of re-introducing himself. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yet another au i don't remember writing


	12. the richter scale of UST

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> originally written for renaissance (I <3 you). classics majors who are pining and also long lost childhood friends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i actually had this whole thing outlined but i haven't touched it in almost a year so....
> 
> completely unedited

Undergraduate welcome mixers are, uniformly, unerringly, a total shit show. 

Even though it’s their senior year and there’s a prison cell of a study carrell calling Yuuri’s name—(“Classes haven’t even started yet, Yuuri!”)—Phichit drags him to a Nelly themed “It’s Getting Hot In Herre” party where you can pay for your entrance fee with actual cash—or just items of clothes stripped from your body. 

“I know you’ve taken pole dancing, you should just save yourself the money Yuuri,” Phichit says as he shimmies out of his pants to reveal a pair of Wonder Woman briefs. 

“If you wanted me to strip, you should have gotten me drunk before hand,” Yuuri crosses his arms over his chest before surveying the crowd. 

A flash of silver hair catches his eye and his mind drifts back to sun-drenched summer memories, stained-glass fuzzy through the veil of time, warm hands clasped against the prickly softness of tall grass. 

“It’s getting hot in here, so take off all your clothes,” a voice slurs in Yuuri’s ear, scented with stale beer and sweat. 

(Well, that ends that trip down memory lane.)

Yuuri jams his hand in to his pants pocket and fishes out a five dollar bill. 

(More than worth it to keep his dignity intact.)

(Months later, Yuuri will wonder why he issued the universe an obvious challenge.)

Inside the sea of bodies and beer pong, Phichit guides Yuuri over to a terrifying cauldron of god knows what, ladles a solo cup directly into the soup, and thrusts it into Yuuri’s hands. 

“Bottoms up!” Phichit chirps, draining his cup. 

(It’s not unlike watching a snake unhinge it’s jaw to swallow a mouse whole.)

Yuuri shudders and follows suit, draining the dregs of his glass, before slinking back for another. And another. And another. 

Things go dark after that. 

The last thing he remembers—what must be a gauzy memory overlaying reality—is a flash of silver hair.

(Later, Victor will tell him how they locked eyes, and like a snake charmer, Victor found himself pulled towards Yuuri’s heated gaze—powerless to resist.)

(He didn’t bother putting up a fight.)

//

Victor is bored. Cradling a red solo cup full of a suspicious liquid he’d rather not think about, Victor’s thousands of miles and years away, deep in his current translation of Aesychlus’ _Oresteia_ , contemplating the myriad possible translations for Cytemnestra’s speech to Agamemnon upon his homecoming. 

If Chris could hear what he was thinking, he’d tell Victor he hadn’t consumed nearly enough Mystery Liquid. 

(Chris might be right. Victor will never admit it out loud.)

It’s his first year as a Graduate Student, after a year abroad on a dig, where he languished under the burning sun of the Mediterranean as blankets of freckles bloomed across his skin.

He’s stalling on this translation. There’s a pile of contracts on his desk deeper than the  Aegean, and none of them call to him. 

He tells Chris as much when he returns from god-knows-where to very little sympathy, “must be nice, contracts everywhere.” 

“Hmmm?” Victor’s eyes are scanning the crowd. He had no interest in addressing what he _knows_ is his ungrateful attitude. If he were interested in that, he wouldn’t be passively attempting to distract himself with this mess. 

“I see that infamous selective hearing is making another appearance.” Chris takes another slug of his drink, raising an eyebrow as his gaze lands on a figure dancing on top of a table, gyrating to the music. 

“What did you say? The music’s really loud here!” 

“Sure, Victor. Sure.” Even over the actually-not-that-loud music, Victor can hear Chris rolling his eyes. 

Victor can’t tell anyone about it, but recently he finds himself thumbing through Edith Hamilton’s _Mythology_ , the same one he and Yuuri used to read in the garden of his parent’s rented house, in between deciding if the clouds overhead resembled the minotaur or the sphinx. 

He thinks about Yuuri a lot these days, as his passion wanes like the trail of Pheobus’ chariot across the sky, beckoning the dusk, the dark. Those seemingly endless summer days that linger like liminal twilight, casting a cascade of colors across his mind in contrast to the grey of the day to day. 

They’d lost contact after Victor’s mother’s contract had ended. By the time you could find anyone over the internet, Victor was convinced that Yuuri had long since forgotten him, even though he would never forget Yuuri. 

Chris, still watching the anonymous dancer, lets out a low whistle. Victor follows his gaze and almost spills his drink. It’s like memory’s been made mirage. There’s no part of Victor that will let himself believe the vision he’s seeing is real, but the line of those cheeks have stalked his dreams long enough that he’s almost certain. 

“Amazing, right?” Chris looks more entertained by Victor’s reaction than the dancer—the dancer Victor is almost positive is Yuuri. 

Victor nods, “he’s…” Victor’s not sure how he ever intended to finish that sentence. 

“Really drunk,” a new voice chimes in, finishing it for him. Victor and Chris turn around to grey eyes, and a broad—but slightly devious—smile. “I don’t know why he bothered to pay the entrance fee, since he ended up stripping anyways.” 

“Are you friends with him?” Victor asks, words slurring together a bit in his excitement. 

 

The newcomer nods, “I’m Phichit, Yuuri’s best friend.” 

Yuuri. Victor can’t believe it. Yuuri who’s always been the summer sun and the sleepless hum of cicadas against the humid evening air, more myth than memory after all these years. Yuuri who fanned the flames of what would become Victor’s life’s work. Yuuri who only knew him as Vitya, not Victor Nikiforov. Yuuri who…is engaged in a dance battle with Victor’s cousin Yuri? 

(That last one doesn’t quite fit.)

(Also Yuri’s only a freshman. Victor’s not sure how he feels about his cousin ending up at the same party.)

“You should go talk to him! You’d probably save that kid the embarrassment.” 

Phichit’s right, Yuuri’s thoroughly trouncing his opponent, and Victor can see the cartoon steam rising from Yuri’s head from across the room. 

It’s all the excuse Victor needs to thrust his drink into Chris’ hand and push his way through the crowds with a muttered “excuse me” as he makes his way towards the Yu(u)ris. 

Yuuri’s gaze locks on his, and Victor’s reeled in—no other bait needed. 

“You shouldn’t be here,” Victor says, not quite sure which one of them he’s speaking to. 

“Fuck off, Vitya,” Yuri snarls, before turning back to Yuuri, “rematch.” 

“Sorry, Yura, I think he’ll be busy for the rest of the night,” Victor says, before turning to Yuuri and offering a hand. “Dance with me?” 

Yuuri’s cheeks are flush—with exertion, with alcohol, and (Victor dares to hope) maybe with something else. 

“I’d love to.” He turns to Yuri, smirks, and says, “we’ll try it again when you can make it worth my while.” 

(Victor’s fallen and he doesn’t want to get up.)

//

The International Classics and Antiquities Conference is a familiar hell of footnotes, and bibliographies, and the lingering ghost of last year’s failure. 

Victor Nikiforov had unveiled a new translation to—unsurprisingly—universal acclaim. Still an undergrad, Yuuri had watched Victor take the stage, starlight hair gleaming under the buzz of the florescent lights, and spoke the first few lines of the Odyssey as though they were his natural tongue.

This year, he sat by Yuuri’s side, hands laced together, palm to palm in holy palmers kiss, and leaned over to whisper, “Yuuuuuuuuri, come on, we’ll be late for the wedding.” 

[unfinished scene]

//

_8 months earlier_

Bright eyed, gasping, palms damp with sweat he isn’t sure is from anxiety or anticipation, Yuuri grasps the latest translation—the only translation in his mind—of Aeschylus’ Oresteia. 

(He’s seen flashes of silver hair around their university, once made eye contact with Victor Nikiforov at a party that he doesn’t remember the rest of, but even though they occupy the same five square miles he 

[Oh look an unfinished scene]

//

Yuuri never expected to formally meet Victor Nikiforov holding hands while fleeing from the hungry masses that descend on he campus dining hall on chicken tender day. 

(Yuuri is strongly reminded of _The Lion King_.)

Victor takes one look at the oncoming hoard of students, a veritable cloud of dust following in he wake of hundred of stampeding feet, laces his fingers through Yuuri’s, and tugs him along with a bright, “run!” and a roguish grin. 

(Yuuri was far more winded from Victor’s smile than the mile they’d sprinted side by side, hand in hand.) 

“Yuuri, right?” Victor’s smile is absolutely blinding, and really, Yuuri thinks, he should be required to carry a concealed weapons permit for wielding it. 

“Yes,” Yuuri croaks. His throat is terribly dry. 

Victor’s TAing Yuuri’s Senior Seminar on Catullus, and sitting there, squirming in his seat, listening to the the dip and drawl of Victors voice flex over the syllables of the original language—well Latin had never sounded quite so alive. 

(Yuuri wondered if they made medical masks the covered your entire body.)

 

(If they didn’t he’d be happy to invest a huge chunk of his broke ass student budget in a prototype. They could save lives. Mortification was the leading cause of death in undergraduate males that happened to be named Yuuri Katsuki.)

Now, with Victor’s palm pressed against the damp surface of his own, Yuuri jerks it away ( _do not think of the word “jerk”_ he thinks) to wipe it against the soft, worn fabric of his jeans. He can just see the crest of he hill from here, if he remember how to move one foot in front of the other and his shoe laces don’t magically untie themselves like he just knows that they will, he might be able to make it back to the senior house he shares with Phichit, Seung Gil, and Leo. 

Maybe he can distract himself from his inevitable ineptitude by counting the neckbeards on campus as he runs up Koss Hill. He can probably make a post about it on The Woodmans’ Way, the on campus gossip blog Phichit’s forced him to (anonymously) contribute to. 

(He’ll admit its a decent distraction from his usually state of crushing existential anguish with a side of french fries slathered in chocolate syrup and hot sauce.)

“I uh, I have to go,” Yuuri he gasps out, before turning to run with a token stumble. At least, he thinks so. For all he knows he might have said “geese terrify me,” but that’s a problem for future Yuuri to deal with. Maybe through the campus Voodoo and Other Indigenous Religions Society. Phichit’s been encouraging him to branch out more. 

(If he bothered to look back, he’d see Victor flexing his fingers and staring at his empty palm.)

//

Victor lounges in Professor Garrett’s office. Everyone on campus knows that Professor Garrett is involved in a torrid love affair with the Women’s Gender and Sexuality Studies Professor that he euphemistically refers to as his roommate, fooling no one. 

Some of the students in Professor Garrett’s seminar have a running tally of the 

[some sort of thing where yuuri arrives here]

“So, Yuuuuuuuuri,” Victor purrs, attempting his best approximation of casual. It’s akin to asking a tone-deaf tenor to sing an aria written for a soprano. 

[unfinished]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> probably will be posting more of these over the course of the week.


	13. terrible relationship advice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> victuuri do a magazine interview and their relationship advice is incredibly useless to anyone who isn't them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> more unfinished ficbits

On the day the _Metropolitan_ interview hits the stands, Yuuri’s phone literally bursts into flames. Apparently there was a factory defect in one of the batches of the newest iPhone model. Yuuri, obliviously caged in his favorite sleeping position—squeezed on either side by Victor and Makkachin—doesn’t notice it for a good five minutes, until the acrid scent of burning plastic hits his nose. Victor pulls a fire extinguisher out of the hall closet and smothers the flames with a burst of foam. 

Victor sighs, “Yakov’s going to be so smug that I’ve had to use this more than once.” 

Yuuri’s almost afraid to ask, but his sense of self preservation is directly proportional to the number of minutes he’s been awake. “…..more than once?"

“Apparently trying to caramelize the top of a creme brûlée is a bad idea if your specialties are thirteen different types of Buzzfeed’s Best scrambled eggs and pasta. As is taking a long bath and forgetting you’ve put a fritatta in the oven.” 

If Yuuri remembers to deal with that, it’ll have to be later—when he’s more awake. 

(If his brain is good at anything, it’s repression.)

“Good thing you were due for an upgrade—four years ago!” Victor says, so cheerful that in that moment, Yuuri’s sure Victor had managed to plot (seemingly) spontaneous cellular combustion. With help from Phichit. Of course. 

Yuuri’s still in mourning. “There were unsaved photos of Makkachin on there,” he says, before stumbling towards the kitchen for coffee. Victor’s whimpering nonsense about “the cloud” from their bedroom. Yuuri’s not sure the cloud’s done anything for anyone besides leaking a lot of celebrity and “celebrity” sex tapes—he’s seen Phichit’s google spreadsheet from his communications major thesis. 

(Phichit’s professor had wept over “the data, so much beautifully explicit data.”

Yuuri had turned to Phichit and mouthed “data” with a raised eyebrow.) 

//

[Metropolitan Article]

“Just show up naked. Metaphorically and _literally_ ,” Please-Call-Me-Victor Nikiforov says with a wink.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i had a whole interview planned and also a mila/sara subplot where victor and yuuri give her unasked for advice and there's miscommunication that makes mila desperate enough to take it. alas.

**Author's Note:**

> send me prompts on [tumblr](http://katsukiyuuristrophyhusband.tumblr.com) if you'd like.


End file.
